Depths of Darkness
by SporadicWriter
Summary: After surviving the torment of Frieza's game, Bulma thought she could trust the people around her. With Earth on the horizon, she knew she would gain the truths she sought after, but some truths are hard to swallow. -Sequel to Contending with Darkness-
1. Chapter 1

A/N - Well hullo there. I was going to wait a while before starting this, but I couldn't get rid of that sequel itch. I had to make a move. Sooo ... Yah ... Don't really know what else to say here. Enjoy? AND thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to everyone who voted for Contending with Darkness, which only ended up winning First flipping Place in the Best Action category. I was overwhelmed to say the least!

I hope this one will please you just the same, if not more!

Thanks to Adli for being my trusty beta :)

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><p><span>Depths of Darkness<span>

Chapter One

**October 1st**

Over the other side of the room, water dripped, hit the floor every three or so seconds. Buzzing past, its movements tickling the hairs on her skin, was a fly, though sometimes it sounded like there were two of them as the sound blended into a static humming right next to her ears. It was too dark to determine any distinguishable objects while she was awake, but soon enough the weakness would drag her back under and she'd pass out for another sparing moment. When waking, for some reason, she thought she would be comforted by Chichi, her late friend's hand rubbing her shoulder while she crooned that it was all OK … even when it wasn't. Rancid odours floated in the room, but she couldn't quite pin point their exact smells. Maybe a rotten, infected sore? She tugged at her bound wrists, the coarse, damp rope burning into her skin, the loose bristles picking at her flesh. She was sat down, hunched forward and too weak to move, too weak to do anything. She could barely breathe, tape covering her mouth, nostrils obstructed with dried blood. Warm tears ran down her face, stinging what must have been an open cut beside her right eye. She muffled her pain through the thick tape, quivering, trying to stop the flow of tears.

Pain came surfacing all at once in her arms, legs, back, and more so in her face.

It was freezing.

One of the flies buzzed past, too close, and as she winced, fruitlessly avoiding it, her head rattling and throbbing. Everything surrounding her was agonising. Memories, too blurry to recollect, were forming and disappearing before her, like passing shadows. She didn't know what was real. Had she dreamt the entire thing? Did any of it happen? Any moment, Frieza was going to walk in and laugh in her face, retelling how he had in fact captured them, killed Goku and Vegeta, and was now planning on keeping her for his own sick means. She swallowed hard, the dryness in her throat making it feel like she was swallowing snapped twigs.

The door swung open, a blast of harsh, dry light swamped the room, forcing her to recoil as much as she could without causing any more searing pain. Heavy footsteps clomped against stone flooring towards her.

Bulma kept her eyes shut, until the tape was stripped from her mouth, ripping out hairs and skin, and she gasped, heaving huge dry exhales as the air came flurrying into her lungs. That sour smell of neglected, rotten flesh came surging into her senses, making her lurch. Nothing came up. There was nothing in her stomach to bring up. Wildly scanning the room, twisting in her chair, Bulma's breathing was frantic, chest rising and falling, rib cage feeling like it was going to crack open, spilling her lungs.

It was freezing.

The door was clicked shut again.

"You gonna start talking yet?" a gruff voice shouted from the left side of her, causing her to flinch.

She peered from beneath tear doused lashes to see a tall, young-looking man, his black, wiry hair resting on his shoulders, his clothing—all black—torn and ripped, mottled. He narrowed his green eyes at her, mouth set into a hard line.

Even keeping eye contact proved too difficult, as she had to drop her gaze, shift it to the other presence in the room: a woman, probably no older than Bulma, dressed the same way, her blonde hair dishevelled and loose. Underneath all the grime and scum on her face, maybe she was pretty, but the etched anger and bitterness made her seem like a brute.

She was tapping her gloved fingers against her forearm, glowering. "Hey, bitch, he asked you a question," she said, approaching.

Bulma shook her head, sucking in her quivering bottom lip. "I don't—don't know—"

"You don't know _what?"_ the man said, snapping a pair of rubber gloves on.

Panic flooded through her as she watched him getting closer. She jerked trying to edge away from him, but it was too late. He punched her. Hard. In the side of the face, just below her eye socket. It went numb before the tingling, acidic pain sprang to life. Tears poured down her face, silent cries for help strained her throat and chest. A lurch of nausea refrained her from talking. All she could focus on was the effort of not vomiting, as there was nothing but stomach acid to bring up.

"Why have you come here? Who sent you?" he said, waited a few seconds, and hit her again, this time in her gut.

Blinded by pain, the room closed in on her, but she needed to stay awake. Blood swilled in her mouth as she garbled, "I don't … know."

She hung her head, finally relenting, and stared at the string of bloody phlegm flopping and dripping from her mouth. Water was still tapping from somewhere in the room. There was mumbling between the two people as they conferred, but that was all distanced compared to the pattering droplets of water.

It was freezing.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to shut down. How did she get here? The more she tried to think about it the thicker the block in her mind became. She just wanted to go home. Wanted to see her parents, friends, anyone who would tell her all of this was just a very vivid dream.

A flicker of energy appeared within her mind's eye, something familiar, a sense she'd felt before but couldn't determine from what source. She'd definitely felt it before. It wasn't enough to grant her the effort to lift her head, but something was approaching, perhaps to save her? Someone?

Vegeta?

The door opened, followed by a gust of icy air, and the sound of the man and woman gasping triggered Bulma's full earshot.

It was silent for a few seconds, before an anxious, familiar voice said, "What the hell are you doing?"

**Two Days Earlier**

The Earth was suspended before them as they ever so slowly orbited it, the richness of the land and ocean somewhat duller than she had remembered. Still, there was no doubting that it was home. The faint outline of Japan was coming into view, its contours shaping the ever growing hope in Bulma's heart.

She looked to Goku, who was scrunching his face up, undoubtedly perplexed by the rapid change in their plans. She wiped her sweaty palms on her grotty jeans, and said, "It's still gonna take a while before we land, so that gives us some time to sort things out," followed by a sigh and a quick glance to Vegeta.

The hostility in his glare was unnerving, making her shift her weight from one leg to the other. But it wasn't long before, without a word, he spun on his heel and stalked off. The whir of the dated technology and machinery on the ship drowned out his fading footsteps, and Bulma was baffled by Vegeta once again, though she tried not to read into it, as there was too much to do now, too much to decode.

"But this means all those nightmares … They weren't real?" Goku said, still listlessly gazing out the glass, the glow of space outlining his body.

She shrugged. She hadn't thought about that either. All those dreams that plagued her mind while on Orlon: the fires, the looming shadows, the sprawled corpses in the streets. It didn't bear thinking about.

"You know as much as I do," she said, wandering over to the control panel, sizing up all the switches and levers. "Whatever is going on, there has to be some sort of explanation. And it has to be on Earth." She met Goku's eyes. "If Earth wasn't destroyed, people might still be there … My Mom and Dad—"

"Gohan," Goku whispered, his eyes widening a fraction, before he looked at the floor, unsure of his own optimism.

"I hope so."

It went quiet for a moment, allowing them both time to digest the possibilities that lay a mere couple of hours away. All that was happening, Bulma believed, was happening for a reason. In the long run, this was a journey she was destined to make. She believed that because she had survived, and planned on continuing to survive. Earth's domineering presence was making that kind of sense more realistic. No matter what was ahead of her, what truths were hiding back on her home planet, she would fight through them. If not for her sake, then for Vegeta.

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><p>Something was eating away at his insides, and it wasn't his own stomach keeling over, gnawing at itself. It was a pain far greater than any hunger he had ever suffered. It was guilt. Every time he caught her staring at him the pain lashed at him, cutting him open, revealing, what? He didn't know. He couldn't exact the reasons why he felt like that. Nothing was as transparent as it used to be anymore.<p>

He entered his quarters, the room he had been held prisoner in not too long ago, shut the door behind him, and sagged down the wall until his backside hit the thick carpeted floor. His vision clouded as he narrowed his eyes, forcing back the overwhelming pressure in his face, his temples burning, a grimace forming, and breathing coming in heavy, raspy huffs of air.

It smelled of dried blood, rusted metal, damp, rotting furniture. The fragrance bound to together making one humungous stench, leaving him no other option but to draw his knees up to his chest and cover his nose. That stench brought horrendous memories hurtling back. Painful, chaotic images of blood smeared on walls, the colour so fresh and glossy, like paint. The sounds of people screaming, begging for their lives, on and on, crying and moaning for mercy. '_Why are you doing this?' _predominantly surfacing amongst all other words.

Doing what? What?

Vegeta curled up tighter, trying to banish the constantly growing pressure in his head, until it was too late. Several tears slipped down his cheeks, catching at his chin, and then he choked on a sob, shuddering as he inhaled a lung full of air, clasping his knee caps.

'_Why are you doing this?'_

It was his mother's voice. Over and over. But he couldn't do anything. He couldn't switch it off. He could never switch it off.

Salt in the tears made his face itchy, the subtle feeling dragging his sorry bones back to the surface like a hard punch in the gut. He sat up, back pressed against the wall, and squared his shoulders. All his adult life he had strived for revenge for the death of his mother, and the obliteration of his entire race … his entire life. Now he didn't have a clue where he stood. Earth held no future for him. He was going somewhere he didn't belong once again. Never where he wanted to be. It was pointless going there, anyway. Frieza would follow them and kill them all. Time wasn't in their favour. Whatever that clown had suggested about Saiyans was fruitless, as they didn't have the time or facilities to train. Going to that ball of shit was a mere distraction, an obstacle for a day or so, before Frieza tracked them down and slaughtered every last one of them. And he wouldn't do it the kind way and destroy the planet from afar. They'd be sought out, stalked for days, thinking they were safe, until he'd erase all of that, piece by piece, before torturing them for weeks, maybe months.

He'd been there. He knew.

Vegeta got to his feet and moved to the tiny port hole to watch the last stretch of space, the emptiness, the clarifying, beautiful nothingness he agreed with. As soon as they landed on Earth, he would leave, go somewhere for solace, peace of mind, so he could train with the little time he had left to survive. That was what he needed to do, but the thought of leaving Bulma troubled him more than he liked. Even though she had another Saiyan to keep an eye on her, he would have preferred to do it himself. He knew he was capable of protecting her, knew she was capable of protecting herself … but against Frieza?

Vegeta sighed, frowning at his own reflection in the glass. He was torn between what he wanted … and what he _really _wanted.

Bulma sprinted down the corridor and into the control room, where Goku was already waiting. The room was devoid of another Saiyan, but she was sure he was fine and capable of looking after himself. The ship jerked and quaked as she reached the panel, all its lights flashing, foreign information appearing on a dust glazed computer screen. The green figures appearing, disappearing and reappearing in red. She knew the sequence of events like the back of her hand. Any language could appear on that screen, but a ship was a ship, and Bulma had made many in her time on Earth. Her fingers danced along the keys, flicking switches, swiping the sweat from her forehead. She stood back, biting her fingernails, watching the information fly down the screen.

Goku strapped himself into a seat, buckling various belts across his waist, shimmying into a harness that hung over the back of the headrest. Bulma did the same, not taking her eyes of the screen as she did, Earth coming closer into view, blocking out any peripheral remnants of space. They plummeted into the atmosphere, air whistling against the body of the ship, deafening them both as they gripped onto their harnesses. Bulma held her breath, and a countdown began.

_Landing in ten … nine … eight … seven …_

The sight of her mother and father enveloping her in a warm, loving embrace filled her with joy, and she focused on that, squeezing her eyes shut. The words people would say to her, how she would describe what had happened … being held in Vegeta's arms again. All of that was possible.

… four … three-

The next sequence of events took place in three seconds : a screeching, blistering sound came first, a collision, then a gust of fire rolled out of the control panel, setting everything alight. The huge screen of glass popped, spraying shards everywhere, hitting Goku in the face, knocking him back off his chair. The moment seemed endless as her world shattered. She felt skin tearing, the heat melting her face and arms, and through the broken glass, she saw the brown soil of Earth, before it all disappeared.

**October 1st**

"What the hell are you doing?" the familiar voice said.

Bulma eased her head up-right, a sharp, ripping pain from an open cut on her lip making her wince, splitting the wound further.

"Bulma? I can't believe it …"

She swallowed a mouthful of bloody saliva, blinking slowly as the image of the person formed in front of her, albeit fuzzy from obstructing tears. Yamcha stood there, his hair shorter, a dusting of stubble across his face, clothes ripped and scuffed, unkempt like the other two. She wouldn't have recognised him if it wasn't for the scar. It seemed too unbelievable to form any type of reaction. Moving her face at all was too costly, so she remained impassive, while her mind worked, ticking over and about to detonate.

He ran up to her and crouched to her level, his eyes wide as he picked up on every bruise and cut that defaced her body. "I can't—I thought you were dead. You're—" He lifted a grimy hand up to touch her face, but something stopped him.

He frowned, turned to the man and woman. "What have you done to her? Do you know who she is?"

The spit she had swallowed was enough to churn her stomach again, and she wretched, the bile burning the walls of her throat.

The man and woman looked at each other, unspoken apprehension sparking between them, then back to Yamcha.

"This is Bulma Briefs … Her father's company is the reason you still have a place to sleep," Yamcha said, his voice rougher, more authoritative.

The two people blanched and grimaced, looking like they were about to throw up. The girl clasped her stomach and stepped back, staring at Bulma as if all the lights in her head had finally switched on.

"But, Yamcha," the girl said. "We really need to talk to you—"

"What?" he said, arching his head as if he wasn't hearing them correctly.

Bulma stared at his face. Was it real? She wanted to touch him, but she remained tied to the chair. Absentmindedly, she leaned towards him, the smell of sweat coming from beneath the layers of his clothing. Underneath that smell was his familiar scent. Just the smell of _him_. And it overwhelmed her, reducing her to silent tears.

The two people stood awkwardly, staring at Yamcha, before he sighed, got to his feet and met them in the centre of the room. They stood together, murmuring for a while, words too hushed for Bulma's battered ear drums to pick up. The ringing still persisted, drilling away at her brain, as she sat their leaning forward, matted hair dangling in front of her eyes. She realised her hair didn't really look blue anymore. It had been subjected to so much mud and filth and grease that she looked like a brunette. She smiled, tempted to chuckle, but knew it would only make for more suffering.

Yamcha returned, his mood noticeably tense. Her eyes fluttered open, and she stared up at him, wondering why he hadn't untied her yet, why he was leaving her held captive for reasons she couldn't understand, and never would.

He glanced over his shoulder at the other two, and said, "Both of you, leave."

They complied, nodding and walking out, leaving Bulma and Yamcha alone.

It was freezing.

"Yamcha—" she said, her voice cracking.

"What happened to you, Bulma?" he said, eyeing her sceptically, like she wasn't Bulma anymore, someone else he didn't recognise. "Is what they told me true?"

Once again she had little knowledge of what people were asking her. She thought that Yamcha would have made more sense. "Where am I?"

One of the flies whizzed past her face again, its buzzing becoming loud and aggressive as it then went on to bounce off the light bulb, creating various shadows in the room.

Yamcha sighed, trying not to succumb to the irritant sound the fly was making. "Bulma … You need to answer some questions."

The fly circled and circled without relent, torturing itself, hitting the bulb with such force that it made the inanimate object move. It reminded her of how she felt while being stuck on that ship …The memory had returned, along with the faces that accompanied it.

Vegeta …

"Where's Vegeta?" she cried out, yanking at her restraints, less aware of the pain it created. "Where's Goku?"

Yamcha frowned, but it held little anger. More of a pitiful look. "_Goku?_" he said, eyes widening. "I think you've got that wrong—"

"Where are they?" Tears spilled down her face, the unsolved mystery causing her to be alert.

It wasn't true? Was all of it fake? Why were people prodding and ripping her to pieces for information she didn't have? People had been with her, and now they were gone, vanished, along with fifty per cent of her brain. How had she gotten here?

Yamcha held his hands up desperately. "Hey … take it easy. No one's going to hurt you … Not anymore."

He wandered out of her view, ran the tap and came back over, holding a small cup of water. Looking around, she knew where she was, or a relative guess. It was a capsule home, one her father had been working on before she could remember. It was state of the art. Or it used to be. This one was mucky and each item of naked, bland furniture was coated with thick cobs of dust. She had been in the hallway the entire time, listening to the various appliances croaking with disuse from every other room.

"Here," he said, tilting her head back so he could pour the water into her mouth.

It trickled down her chin and neck, but the water was tepid so it didn't feel too bad. Yamcha plonked the cup on the floor, while Bulma swallowed the warm liquid thoughtfully, closing her eyes for a moment.

"I need you to think, Bulma," he said, rubbing his chin, watching her closely, his features sinking at the deteriorated sight of her.

Her breathing steadied. It was all too much to take in, so she conceded to whatever. Lethargy had taken over her mind, so the mere thought of a dispute was making her body ache, yearning to shut down. She stared at her naked knees, at the thousands of goose bumps littering her skin, and the long hairs trying to stand.

"Where've you been?" he asked her, the patience in his voice wavering a bit, but not much.

She bit her lip, frowned, casting her mind beyond the thick barricade. "I don't …"

There was movement. She couldn't tell what exactly. Looking up at Yamcha was bringing back too many memories, so she tried to keep her eyes elsewhere. It sounded like he was shifting on the spot, agitated with her lack of clarity.

"You've been gone a year-" he stated, followed by a sharp intake of air.

Bulma blinked, giving in and looking at him, a sudden rush in her heartbeat making her pull at the restraints without considering the effects. "A year?"

"—And I thought you'd died when we were attacked—"

"I was gone? A year? Yamcha," she pleaded, twisting, "I don't know anything." She shook her head, wrists splitting with pain. "Why am I here, Yamcha? Why have you got me tied to a chair? Why were those people hurting me?"

More tears came, unwilling to quell as she begged for answers of her own.

Yamcha crouched, but couldn't look her in the eye, instead staring at his own shoes. "Bulma … Why did you come to Earth with one of the soldiers who came to destroy it a year ago?"

Again, the question made little sense. She winced, shaking her head. "I don't understand …"

Yamcha peered at her uncertainly. The fly buzzed past them both, and Yamcha aimed towards it, blew it into a tiny cloud of dust. She watched as the particles of the flies corpse floated gracefully to the floor, and the obscene image of Goku getting glass sprayed across his face before the ship crashed, slapped her back to focus. She wailed, the sound so sudden it sent Yamcha backwards onto his haunches.

"Bulma," he said, clutching her knees.

She immediately stopped, stared at his hands, the black dirt underneath each nail, the cuts and peeling skin on each finger.

"You really can't remember what happened here?"

She shook her head despondently.

He sighed, still holding on to her knees. "A year ago, these soldiers appeared out of nowhere and destroyed everything … Only a few survived … Then they just vanished. I don't know why. You disappeared, Bulma, and Chichi, too. I tried looking, but—"

She couldn't speak, but Yamcha could see the information held the weight of tonne of metal.

"Maybe it's too much to hear right now—"

"My Mom and Dad, Yamcha. Are they alive?"

He grimaced, looking away.

The emotional strain she had repressed surfaced all over again, heavier than ever. Her parents were not alive. They were still dead, like she had been lead to believe not long ago. Another memory of someone telling her that made her slump forward in the chair, shutting it all off.

"Vegeta? Where is he?" she whispered, as the information settled and burrowed into reality.

The man she believed she loved, who had kept her alive, had been the reason for all the torment to begin with? It couldn't have been true, but somehow it didn't seem unbelievable. That much had happened to her, she could have been told anything and would have felt indifferent towards it. The emotions she was once in control of had now slipped away into darkness.

"They tried to apprehend him, but he was too quick. I've a search team scouting for him as we speak," Yamcha said, squeezing her knees reassuringly. Then he stopped. "I need to know why you came here with him."

She shrugged, knowing that this was the definitive moment as to why she was tied up to a chair and battered to a pulp. " … I didn't know who he was. He missed that information out," she muttered bitterly.

"What happened?"

What happened? What _did _happen? Was that story to be told for years and years as 'that part in her life she'd rather overlook', like it was a bad boyfriend she'd never want to be reminded of? That story wasn't even real anymore. Whoever she was there and then was not who she was now. She didn't know who she was now. The week on Orlon had changed her, but she didn't want to delve into the days, hours and minutes, scouring through the details to try and pick at that crystallising moment that reshaped who she was. The whole ordeal was too heavy. Not worth it. Not now, anyway.

"Too much," she said, glancing at Yamcha.

He stalled, but then got up, moved behind the chair and untied her wrists, then her ankles, releasing a new wave of pain all over her body as the wounds pulsed with fresh blood. He wandered off again, opening cupboards, slamming them closed. Bulma didn't look at her ankles or wrists. She'd seen enough blood to know what colour it was, what texture and taste. He came back over, sat down in front, and bandaged her up, wrapping the material around her wrists methodically, but tentatively.

"I trust you, Bulma. I didn't know they'd captured _you_," he said, sheepishly peeking at her. "This wouldn't have happened. I'm sorry."

She couldn't take her eyes off him. The sight of him still mystified her. Just his existence. It was real. _He_ was real.

"Those guys … the ones who had you tied up … they shot down your ship. When they found you, you were wreck. You've been in a re-gen tank for twenty four hours, but—I'm sorry. This was never meant for you. Ever since that day—" He finished bandaging her wrists, sighed and looked at her. "We can't let that happen again."

Yamcha's handy work was thorough, but he hadn't cleaned up the wounds or anything like that. It was enough for now, though. Bulma didn't move, even though she wanted to throw herself at him and cry into the crook of his neck.

"You trust me?" she said. "You don't know where I've been, still don't know the reason behind any of this, and you trust—"

"I _know_ you," he said.

"How do I know this is real?" She gestured around the room.

He shrugged, gave a weak smile. "I guess you don't Maybe it isn't. A year ago, I thought I'd lost you forever. Now you're in front of me …"

They stared at each other, before Bulma said, "But, where's Goku?"

Yamcha cocked an eyebrow, frowning. "Goku?"

"He was with me."

He looked off to the side, settling back on his haunches. "Goku's dead—He died before any of this happened."

Her heart stopped. "No, no. He was with me, I promise you."

Yamcha narrowed his eyes at Bulma, as if she was teasing him, ready to reveal the punchline any moment. "The ship you were found in only had you and that soldier in it."

"_No," _she said defiantly, clenching her fists. "Goku was with me. Goku _was_ with me."

There was proof. She needed Vegeta to validate that proof. Everyone who saw Goku was either dead or missing. Typical. Now Yamcha was looking at her like she'd completely lost it, malfunctioned beyond return. Exasperated, she threw her head in her hands.

"I think you need some sleep," Yamcha said soothingly, his voice giving her some peace of mind, at least.

Suddenly, she tried to get to her feet, limbs rickety like an old piece of furniture, and she collapsed into Yamcha, who instinctively gripped onto her arms, digging his fingers into the tender wounds. She grit her teeth as she steadied herself.

"I need to find Vegeta," she mumbled, Yamcha helping her walk as if she was an invalid.

He chose wisely not to protest, though she knew he was right. She needed rest, to untangle the warped memories in her head and start thinking straight. They walked towards the door that was encased in green and brown stains, before Yamcha stopped.

"Before we walk out of here—I want to warn you: the world isn't what it was. People aren't the same anymore … They've _changed_."

_Haven't we all_.

Surely, it wasn't any worse than Orlon.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N - Thank you to Adli for scouring through this chapter!

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><p><span>Depths of Darkness<span>

Chapter Two

**October 2nd**  
><span>Technically, Bulma hadn't set foot outdoors in three months, but had realised that that wasn't a bad thing anymore. It was better to stay indoors now, hide under the duvet covers and pray for sleep amidst all the noise outside. Bottles smashing, drunkards yelling at the top of their lungs that there was 'no Kami', and when the hours crawled by and the night spread across buildings like a deadly infection, the moaning ensued, painful, haunting noises to keep you wide eyed until dawn. She didn't know whether a brick was going to come smashing against the door, followed by a tirade of troubled souls, looking for anything they could get.

Bulma was lying in a comfy bed, wrapped up to her chin in thick duvet and blankets, everything she should want for a night of rest. But that was far from possible. What she had viewed before making it to Yamcha's capsule home was too much to blot out. The streets and buildings looked abandoned, giving the eerie loneliness of Orlon a run for its money. Rubble was all over the place, yet the majority of the buildings remained standing, though devoid of any windows or doors. Vines and weeds had grown over doors and passageways, making the entire place look like it was screaming 'keep away'. And that was what she'd decided to do. She'd seen enough. It seemed all too familiar to her, as if she'd been plonked back onto Orlon for round two.

Dawn graced the room beneath the small cracks of each panel of wood that boarded up her window. Thin motes of dust floated in the air, and she found herself watching them, entranced, able to block out the noise of a girl crying in a street not far away. Conceding to no sleep, she got up and headed for a shower, relishing in the hot water, twisting the taps to maximum heat until it blistered the skin on her back. Yamcha had left a pale yellow tracksuit in a neat pile on the bed, so she slipped into it and wandered around the rest of the house to gander at her father's creation.

This one was a bit more updated than the last. Eco-friendly light bulbs were fitted into the ceiling, letting the whole corridor stay aglow with a warming, soft orange. Dust still clung to wooden cabinets, carpets were scuffed and worn from over usage, leading into different rooms. The door at the end of the corridor must have been the master bedroom; must have been where Yamcha slept. Bulma jumped as a red-headed woman breezed past her, scrunching her hair up into a high ponytail while looking Bulma up and down. The woman continued down the hallway out of sight without a word, her faux casual demeanor transparently obvious with her hasty steps.

Bulma narrowed her eyes before following and ending up in the kitchen, where Yamcha was sitting at a metal table, sipping what looked like a cup of coffee. The smell of it drifted around the room, like it was persistently trying to make everything familiar, more homely. The noises outside had dampened against the sound of the red-headed woman clattering cutlery around, looking for something.

"You sleep OK?" Yamcha said, getting up and pulling a chair out for her.

"No," she mumbled, obliged and sat down as he walked over to the fridge.

She couldn't help but to keep glancing at the nameless woman, who had yet to utter a single word to her, and was completely ignoring her existence. It was as if she were a ghost, roaming the house, and only Bulma could see her.

Yamcha chuckled, his head buried in the fridge. "Yeah. Same. Sleep is a … uh … luxury you rarely get anymore." He pulled out a couple of eggs, which Bulma found quite odd.

She sat clasping the edges of the seat, letting the heated flooring travel from her feet to her head. "Are you in charge of something here?" she said, closing her eyes, feeling her face redden for reasons she couldn't understand.

Yamcha was sat back down again, pushing a bowl with two white, shiny, wobbling boiled eggs towards her. He chewed on the lower crust of a loaf of bread, having to use two hands to snap bits into easy chunks because it was that stale.

"You need protein. And we only have bread and eggs right now. There should be a food delivery soon, but … for now …" He coughed lightly, trying to swallow his food, and sat back in his chair while watching, smiling as she picked at the slimy eggs.

The red-haired woman huffed and slammed the drawer shut, giving up on her conquest of being background noise, and stormed off again, the thudding of her footsteps weakening down the hallway.

Yamcha smiled ruefully, failing to discuss the woman's allusive presence. "I helped pick people back up again—brought communities together—stopped some of the crime going on. They kind of look to me." He shrugged, too modest for his own good.

"As a leader?" Bulma said, spitting powdery egg yolk everywhere, inhibitions long gone. Even something as ordinary as a boiled egg reopened her love for food. The rubbery squelch of the egg white as she chewed into it was so satisfying she had to close her eyes for a moment.

"No. I don't think so. I just help, want to protect Earth, you know. Krillin helps, too—Tien … even Gohan," he said, like it was nothing.

Bulma opened her eyes. "Gohan?"

A day before, Yamcha had been sceptical of Bulma's sanity, witnessing her crying out for Goku who was supposedly dead. She still didn't buy that. Goku was alive and she knew it. But she didn't want Yamcha to believe she'd lost it, so keeping anything about Goku under wraps was for the best.

Yamcha nodded. "Yeah. He's been through a lot, that kid."

"Where are they?"

"They're in Japan," he said, running his hands down his face.

Bulma froze. "Then, where are we?"

"For now, we're in England, wherever the trouble is. Everywhere looks the same now, anyway. Just destruction. It's looking better than it did, though," he said, straightening up.

She swallowed the last slip of egg yolk, before saying, "I need to go home, Yamcha."

Without looking her way, frowning at his own hands clasped on the table top, he said, "There's too many issues to deal with here first—"

"Just give me a ship—I'll go myself," she implored, scraping the empty bowl aside.

"I don't think you're well enough yet," he said, shaking his head, his ruffled, morning hair a strangely comforting sight.

"No, I am. I feel fine. I need to see it. Even if it's been blown into a pile of bricks. I _need_ to see it."

It took a minute, but Yamcha sighed and dropped back in his chair, pinching his brow. "Ach—OK, OK," he said, waving a hand. "Give me three days, and I'll go with you." His eyes met hers.

Her heart warmed, but the feeling was soon conquered by the suspicion that swarmed her mind. The uncertainty of reality was still there. It could all be a simulation of another world, Frieza feeding off her memories and all the connections to piece together another horror show for her to wade through.

"Alright," she said. "But I want to help." She held a hand up when Yamcha tried to demur. "Whatever it's like; I can handle it."

It was nice that he was trying to shield her from the treacherous outdoors, and really, she didn't want to venture out there, at all. Things were changing around her at a supersonic speed, and she needed to throw herself against it in order to keep up with it. This was Earth, her home, and she had to help in any way she could. Gohan was across the planet, _alive_. It wasn't as bad as she thought, despite many questions still being unanswered. Thoughts of Vegeta were pushed to the very back of her mind, because she didn't want to think about them … didn't want to think about _him_.

* * *

><p>The ship came to an abrupt stop on top of a hill that overlooked what used to be a huge city, a sheet of gloom hanging over the building tops. Buildings were missing chunks of walls, and were leaning awkwardly to one side as if the city has been struck by a colossal earthquake. It was 5:30pm and the sun was setting already, casting a red hue over everything, including the extensive foliage that seemed to be creeping out of anywhere and everywhere. Mysteries of the planet's current state were still at the forefront of Bulma's curiosity, but she didn't know where to start. The plan was to just get on with it, think about other things, and stop her mind from scrambling away back into the past.<p>

Yamcha helped her out of the jet, where she was lead towards two bulky men, all in similar clothing, who introduced themselves as Mark and Seb. No further words were exchanged as they trudged through dirt and shards of glass and metal, but Yamcha remained close by her side, glancing her way every minute or so. His fists were clenched as he paced seamlessly through the muck. The other two men gradually created a gap between the group, allowing Bulma some time to slow down and talk to Yamcha, see what was running through his mind.

When they reached the first decrepit stone wall, Yamcha let the other two men march ahead to survey the surroundings, crouching and beckoning Bulma to do the same.

"Who was that woman? In your house?" she said, breathing heavily, asking any old thing to keep her mind off the fear from what she might find in this city. The memory of roaming the deserted town on Orlon with Vegeta sprang to mind, obscenely flicking through the pain and vivid colours.

Yamcha slouched, looked behind the wall and turned back towards her, eyebrow cocked as if she'd asked him something outrageous. "Her name's Mina. She's been helping out for a few months now," he said distantly, peering beyond the wall again.

Bulma watched the profile of his face, the determination that drove him to lead a community of people onto the right path. He was a good person.

A woman's scream broke Bulma's concentration, the blood draining sound that could stop you sleeping for weeks. She pressed herself against the wall, suddenly not as confident as she had been before. Yamcha stood and pulled her up with him, gripping on the tender skin under her arm. She seized her breath, awaiting the misery ahead of her.

He held an arm out to barricade any further advancements. "Stay in my sight."

Bulma nodded, but continued to follow Yamcha over to an opening, which may have been a communal garden once. A giant stone statue of Queen Victoria stood atop a stone set of stairs, the back of her head and right arm missing. The woman was beneath it, huddled on the ground, sobbing into a tattered scarf, the skin on her arms and legs lashed with blood. They crept against the grit towards her, keeping a distance. Mark and Seb were nowhere to be seen. Bile started to rise in Bulma's throat as the woman's sobbing progressed into a wail, the horrible sound echoing around the dead city buildings.

The sun had set completely, dusk relaxing and surrounding the area with ensnaring darkness, confining them even more. Bulma couldn't take her eyes off the woman. Why was she crying? Why was she alone? She found herself idly walking towards her when Yamcha had to grab her arm again.

He nodded to someone in the distance, yanked Bulma backwards and whispered, "It's a set up."

It took a total of twenty seconds for the bodies to pour out of the shadows, wielding guns, open-firing out onto the street. Even a child had a knife clasped in his tiny hands as he ran towards them. Mark appeared out of nowhere, tackling three men to the floor, destroying their weapons with a blast of ki. Seb was moving around too fast for Bulma to keep track. She stepped backwards until she hit the sanctuary of the broken wall to hide behind. Yamcha had been eaten up by the action, immersing himself into the fight without a second thought.

It was all too fresh. Maybe she wasn't ready for this. These people, dressed in scraps of tattered material, were barely human. They bore animalistic traits, and this had happened in a year? Yamcha was right. Just as he had forewarned: she was unprepared for the changes on Earth.

A flaming bottle was thrown, and shattered beside her, releasing a toxic gush of blue fire. Bulma jumped back, the flames catching her right arm, and she howled in pain. The smell of burning alcohol clung onto her senses, even after she tried to ensconce herself behind another barricade.

What was she doing? This was no place for her. She may have thought Orlon had changed her, toughened her up, but not for this. What was this? The apocalypse? So the noises she heard the night before, the screeching and the moaning, were from these people? It couldn't be happening. This was her home.

Yamcha appeared, hanging over the barricade, black and red greasy smears down his face. His eyes were wild as he looked for her. "Get back to the jet. Go back to my place. _Now_," he shouted, hauled her onto her feet, and slapped the keys into her hand.

It didn't take much brain power to realise that that was the best option, but she didn't want to become a useless burden. Her pride was too strong, forcing her to stand her ground and deal with the situation at hand. But what could she do? There were things she could create, or build, but when it came to combat, she fell short.

He pushed her. "Go, Bulma."

Another explosion made the ground tremble, edging her forward, and on impulse, she sprinted to the jet, flicking up huge chunks of muck in her wake, leaving the fight behind.

* * *

><p>Loose, rotting floorboards creaked as she stomped against them, waiting, constantly checking the watch on the kitchen table to see the minutes ticking by. Still no sign of Yamcha, or <em>Mina<em>. It had taken two hours to reach the house, which was tucked away at the bottom of a mountain, shielded by a curved lip of stone. Distant gun fire kept her alert, kept her treading the length of the house and back again. Caving to the pain in her calves, she sat down, and started biting her nails, encoding all the possible outcomes of that very fight. Yamcha could be dead. That was the worst thing. Getting over your parents' death twice was harrowing enough. The kitchen fell eerily quiet, so quiet she could hear the tiny ticking coming from the watch. She stared at it, the big hand making its way around the numbers, sweeping over time that could never be taken back or retrieved. Time in the desert, time in the cathedral, time plotting and killing the Orling, time being a normal human with problems that now seemed so laughably trivial.

She shook her head and closed her eyes. "No," she muttered under her breath, as yet more tears came.

The front door burst open, swinging on its weak hinges, welcoming a black and blue Yamcha back home. She shot up and ran over to him, stopping a few steps shy of him. From head to toe, he was plagued with ugly cuts and bruises, his top corner of his top lip swelling obscenely, like he'd been stung by a giant wasp. He back-heeled the door shut.

Somehow, he managed to smile, threw his arms out wide, gesturing around the place. "Welcome home, Bulma," he said, brushing past her, a sour stench clinging to his skin.

Without thinking, she clasped his forearm, stopping him from leaving her without answers. Outside that door, was an extinguishing civilisation, starting wars out of greed and desperation, a world so horrific, she begged for a director to appear and shout 'CUT', or for her to wake up and sigh in relief. Now that she'd glimpsed that world, she couldn't forget it.

Yamcha scrutinised the emotion Bulma was trying to convey, but the more he tried, the more confused he looked, leaving him little else but to ease her fingers off him.

"I better get a shower," he said softly, and walked away.

She didn't get it. The world had crumbled into a pile of disintegrating flesh, yet there was still electricity and hot water, and _food_. Somewhere, something was going right. Where was the source to this? The weak would perish and the brutish would prevail, conquering groups of people, until they accumulated a mass of depraved souls to wreak havoc on those who were supposedly trying to help. It had been a day, and already, Bulma had seen enough.

It took half an hour for Yamcha to reappear in a grey, cotton tracksuit, the bruise on his lip angry and glistening and weeping with fluid. He pressed his fingers to it tentatively, blenching as he felt the damage. Bulma hadn't moved, still sat at the kitchen table staring gormlessly at the egg shell pattern, making pathways through the flecks of colours to the other side of the table.

"Bulma …" he said, standing stock still, arms pressed at his sides.

Slowly, she looked up again, constantly bemused by how saddening his voice made her feel.

"I don't know what happened to you, but if you need to talk about it …" He trailed off as he moved around the kitchen to sit opposite her.

The thought of whining about her past seemed inappropriate when sat adjacent to a man who had just taken one hell of a beating. She wanted to ask _him_ so many questions about the state of the Earth, instead of him evading the 'big reveal'. Perhaps if she did tell him a minute proportion of what had happened, it may benefit her in some unsettling, therapeutic way. And maybe he'd be more inclined to share information with her. Was that how it worked here now? Back while dating Yamcha, she remembered how he cherished his own thoughts a little too much, never leaning towards giving anything away whatsoever.

She sniffed, scraped the chair back and rolled the left leg of her bottoms, showing the two lumpy scars either side of her ankle.

"I was part of a game. We were paired up, all put on the same planet to gather the Dragon Balls for Frieza. We had seven days to do it, killing each other for them." Not waiting for a reaction, she pointed at the scar, the circular pattern it left on her pale skin. "We had an anklet attached to the muscles in our leg. It injected poison if we strayed too far from each other, or … if the seven days ran its course."

She pulled the material back over the scar, wanting to forget its very existence. The metal bolts might have been removed, but she could still feel the weight, the ghost of them, as if they were clinging to her for the rest of her life.

"We?" Yamcha said, sounding breathless.

Bulma exhaled through her nose, preparing herself to taste the name again. "Me and Vegeta …"

Yamcha continued to stare listlessly at her leg, despite the scar not being visible anymore, while he took it all in. The cogs were turning in his mind, and he asked to know more, more gory details, more about Frieza, and Chichi, and the other contenders. So she told him, taking two hours out of their delicate time. Of course, she omitted the weighty part about forming a mournful relationship with Vegeta. That wasn't needed in this recollection of events.

Once she finished, and couldn't find any more to say, parched and hungry, she had to sit back, like the story had taken its toll on her.

"Jesus … Bulma, I can't even imagine—"

Casually dismissing his pity with a flick of the wrist, she said, "I don't know what the truth is anymore. I don't know _why_ Vegeta tried to destroy this planet. But I can guess who was pulling the strings."

The ticking of the watch filled the looming silence, before the harsh screeching of the chair absorbed it, as Yamcha jumped up. Before Bulma could protest, he threw his arms around her, almost pulling her out of the seat. Damp hair pressed against the top of her ear, and warm breath travelled down the back of her neck. Sense alluded her. Her mouth was full of his hoodie, saliva smearing it, tears catching against the material, all because she'd wanted someone to do this since the day Chichi died. There wasn't a particular smell to Yamcha anymore, though despite the shower, there was still an undertone of sweat between his collar bones. She found herself returning the embrace, squeezing them together, wrapping herself up away from the horrifying world outside. They stayed like that for a while, Yamcha awkwardly bending to reach her.

A striking at the door tore them apart quicker than a lighting strike. An ominous glow was beaming from outside and into the hallway. Yamcha sighed, looked at the wet patches on his top, and proceeded down the hall to answer the door.

A tornado of emotions whisked around her mind while he was gone, occupied by another urgent matter. But none of those thoughts could be connected to mean something solid. Everything was still a bit jarred. At least Yamcha knew that she hadn't had an easy ride, denuding her past to him. Retelling Chichi's death was harder than she thought. None of it felt real yet. Was Chichi sitting at home with Goku and Gohan, living a normal life? Or was Bulma so deluded by latching onto infantile innocence that it pushed her to disbelieve everything anyone said anymore?

The door creaked shut. Seconds later, Yamcha returned, trudging down the hallway, zombified and pale in the face. Even the bruises and cuts looked a little less brassy. He sank into his chair, Bulma watching, a halo of anxiety hovering above her. Expunged civilisations was clearly the least of their concerns judging by Yamcha's face.

"That was a … er … message from Krillin," he said, meeting her eyes. "They've found Vegeta … and Goku."


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks to Adli for proof reading :)**  
><span><br>Depths of Darkness

Chapter Three

**October 5****th**

This moaning was a little less disturbing than the noises drifting from _outside_ the capsule home, but it was still keeping Bulma wide awake until the dawn came around again. Did they have the door open, or something? Bulma groaned, rolled over, and curled her pillow so her head was wedged between it and the mattress. It wasn't the most pleasant thing, hearing your ex and a strange woman fucking in the next room, especially when everything surrounding them was such a mess. That was the last thing on Bulma's mind.

Yamcha and Mina had been arguing all night about the news of Goku and Vegeta's whereabouts. The plan of action was devoid of any real thought or consideration towards anyone. It was all Yamcha's idea; to march in there head on, screaming and kicking up the ground. Of course, Bulma stepped aside. That night had drained her energy, and that news … she didn't know. She still didn't know. It had been almost three days since then, and feelings towards that particular situation just hadn't surfaced. Maybe she didn't want to think about it—Vegeta and Goku both in the same place, and had knowingly left her to be captured and tortured. All that wasn't meant to have happened, you see. The moment they loomed over Earth in that rickety old ship, Bulma sought after hope, joining forces with Goku and Vegeta. Now that idea seemed stupid, so stupid it made her snort indignantly. What an idiot. And that was why she continued to stare at the darkened wall of this gloomy room, listening to the animalistic lovemaking in the next room, and thinking about ... nothing.

* * *

><p>Yamcha was loading the ship, hauling multiple bags of God-knows-what into the back. The rising sun shot blades of light through the reddened leaves on the trees, shimmering off the metal exterior of the ship, making it look more heavenly than Bulma could have imagined. She stepped out into the cold morning air, and took a deep breath in the wake of the long journey ahead. Yamcha could have flown them there in half the time, but said it wasn't appropriate with Mina around. Bulma didn't ask questions. She was sick of being palmed off with bullshit.<p>

Leaves crisped and sighed under foot as she walked over to the ship. Yamcha stopped to look over, his features warming at the sight of her. She missed the gentleness of his personality, though it felt out of tune at that moment.

"The difference three days of decent food and sleep can make," he said, eyes focused on nothing but her.

She looked down at her feet like an embarrassed teen, avoiding the situation, and let the strap of her bag slip off her shoulder. What exactly was she supposed to say to that? 'Well, actually, I haven't had much sleep because of you and your girlfriend's wild bedroom sessions?' Of course she wouldn't vocalise that complaint. She opened her mouth to offer a stubborn thank you, when Mina breezed past and chucked a large duffel bag into the back of the ship, creating a disruptive racket against the controlled silence of the cold morning.

Yamcha's attention was snatched instantly. Bulma was grateful for that small miracle.

"So you _are_ coming, then?" he said, narrowing his eyes as Mina rolled up her sleeves.

Mina tightened her crimson pony tail, and frowned at Yamcha. "Wouldn't miss it. I want to see the fucker who killed my parents," she said, and glanced at Bulma with a look that could pierce titanium.

Bulma didn't respond. She was fighting on the right side of the war, and unfortunately, what Mina had just said may well have been true. Though why she was giving Bulma an accusatory glare was beyond her.

Mina jumped into the back of the ship first, and Bulma strolled after her, head down, no complaints. Time would pass by, and whoever she was with didn't matter, because soon enough she was going to come face to face with Vegeta. Thinking about that shot blades of ice through her chest. How could someone so cruel and heartless provoke such prominent emotions?

Four strangling hours had passed in their monotonous journey over Europe. The ship chugged sporadically—a job Bulma could have tinkered with if only given the opportunity to do so. Yamcha had been babying her ever since she got here, keeping sharp objects out of sight at all times. Perhaps he wasn't worried about someone else hurting her … Perhaps he was worried about self-infliction. So far on this journey, Bulma had regurgitated even more detail about her time on Orlon: what the planet was like, what kind of wild life inhabited different areas, how Chichi had come in to the equation. All because Yamcha had persistently prodded her for more. He wanted to know more. He wanted to understand her pain … to share it. But she wasn't interested in his consoling shoulder to whimper on. That was pointless now. All Bulma could think about was how the Earth had coped in the year she had been gone, and what exactly happened when it was purged. No one seemed to remember, except Yamcha, yet he was keeping the information guarded.

He smiled, tightened his hands around the steering mechanism, staring vacantly into the endless line of blue sky. "It should be impossible," he muttered.

"Plenty of impossible things have happened lately."

Bulma drew her attention away from the window, hands numb from leaning against them. Mina was sitting in the back, rustling through some of the cargo like a raccoon. She'd been distracted by thoughts throughout the journey, and hadn't uttered a single word to either of them. Yamcha and Mina had an odd relationship. There was no denying the curiosity burrowing through Bulma's vacant head. If Yamcha wasn't going to talk about the state of the Earth, maybe he would talk about something else.

"So, when did you guys meet?" Bulma said, but as the words came out, the realisation of their pointlessness followed promptly after, making her wince at her own stupidity.

Yamcha remained focused on what was ahead, though his face grew a darker shade. Bulma sank into her seat as the silence chewed and gnawed. Why did she have to ask such a trivial question, when life was a wreck-

"About two months ago," Mina said, digging elbow-deep into a beige satchel. "He was a _mess_ when I met him."

Aghast, Bulma turned back to Mina, then to Yamcha, waiting for a response. Yamcha did nothing more than look totally abashed. What was he ashamed of, exactly?

"Yeah—too busy helping _everyone _else, forgot about himself -"

"Mina—" he warned.

"Oh, shut up, Yamcha. People have problems. Get over it," she said, waving her hand.

Problems? Yamcha hadn't mentioned anything about himself in the last three days. Nothing. Bulma was being shut out. But why? If anything, she was to know any information possible. Regardless of her feeble inquisitions, Yamcha always digressed upon another topic, steering it back towards her problems, when in fact, he was the one who was suffering from the stab of depression the most. She saw the similarities back when they dated. Even then he would have kept his feelings under wraps; only the feelings he wanted to show. She hated that.

"You're OK now, though, right?" Bulma said, scrutinising another forked scar below his ear.

He self-consciously pawed at his neck, brushing dry, flaky fingers against his tarnished skin. "I'm fine," he clipped.

Just like always.

It was useless trying to fish for any more information about Yamcha when he was so blunt and awkward, so Bulma got up to stretch her legs for a bit, walking to the back of the ship to find something to eat. She could feel Mina's eyes trailing after her. Bulma crouched, found her bag, and routed through it for the bag of raisins she'd packed.

Mina crouched opposite her, almost inducing a heart attack just when Bulma found the treasure right in the corner of the bag.

"I know who you are," Mina whispered, leaning in.

Bulma stared, biting back the sarcasm that danced on her tongue.

"To Yamcha, I mean," she said, feeling the need to elaborate, also blushing.

"Oh—uh." Bulma continued to rummage through the bag, even though she'd already found what she was looking for. She just couldn't look this bizarre woman in the eyes.

"I don't _know_ you. You appear out of thin air with the guy who attacked this planet … I don't trust it … I don't trust _you," _she hissed, acid trickling from every word. "You know, considering that before all of this, you and Yamcha had a thing going on, you don't seem to be showing much interest in him now. What _did_ happen during your time in space?"

It was unclear as to what Bulma was more saddened by. The vexing knowledge that Yamcha had discussed his past life with Mina, or the clarity of her suspicion towards her. Who was this person crouching before her, poking her nose into Bulma's life when she didn't know shit about anything? The ship chugged again, hitting some turbulence, and it knocked Bulma out of her rotten daze.

She smiled and said, placidly, "Mina … I don't know you either—so I won't be discussing anything with you." She got up, bag of raisins in hand, and walked back over to the front of the ship to Yamcha, who smiled innocently.

Just outside the window, the trees were whipping back and forth like a manic crowd of people swaying at a rock concert. The ship gradually dropped, swooping lower amongst the foliage, but not enough to make contact with a single branch. She knew the route well, knew where the path led, knew where the opening in the forest would take them. Goku's house was set back and isolated from any other houses, which was completely understandable considering half the things the man got up to. He didn't want to draw more attention to himself. The world had seen it in the past, but flying around and shooting beams of energy at any given moment was still not universally accepted. The outback was for the best.

The silence that eroded the harmonious atmosphere was becoming unbearable, as Bulma sat curled up in the passenger seat, biting her stubby fingernails. When a little bald man, waving his arms frantically, mouthing something she couldn't yet determine, appeared in a clearing, her mood lifted, like a ray of concentrated sun-shine was being pumped into her heart.

Yamcha smiled as the ship juddered, beginning to land, and Krillin's warm and welcoming face grew more prominent, more recognisable. Bulma's heart fluttered. Krillin was smiling, still waving his arms, even though it was clear they'd seen the signal. She would never had thought it, but Krillin's face was the first thing that made her feel comforted.

They landed delicately, using Yamcha's expert piloting skills, and Bulma disregarded the mountain of luggage as she bolted out the door, across the grass, and straight into Krillin, who embraced her into a bear hug. Just what she needed. Never would she have thought this little creep would make her so happy.

Krillin laughed, pulled away to get a look at her, a twinkle of sorrow in his eyes. "You're back. And alive," he shouted, blasting her eardrums. He squinted at her figure. "A little on the skinny side, but—"

"Yeah? Well, food wasn't very plentiful where I was," she said, feeling a little perturbed by her own blasé tone.

Krillin's mouth opened slightly, but she stopped him before he could start.

"Don't ask," she said, shaking her head.

The last thing she wanted to do was go on about that again. She'd had enough with Yamcha, despite knowing he was just trying to be useful.

Krillin's attention was drawn to the clanging emanating from the open trunk of the ship, followed by Mina hopping out, wielding something shiny that she quickly slipped into her back pocket. Yamcha strolled out afterwards, hands in his pockets, like the ground was about to swallow him up. The wind was ferocious, whisking Bulma's hair into her eyes and mouth. She bunched her hair up and held it on the top of her head, keeping a close eye on Mina, who had vengeance bleeding out of her pores. Mina nodded at Krillin, sharing an acceptance of mutual friendship that made Bulma's heart sink a little. A year away from this world had branded her an outcast, almost.

They all stood awkwardly, unearthing soil with agitated feet, while the weather kept them alert. Goku's house was a mere couple of meters away. There were people inside there, people Bulma didn't particularly want to see. You would never tell, though. The windows were blackened, curtains drawn with no light trickling through, the only murmuring voices were created by the wind meandering through the forest. Bulma's breathing became harsh.

"OK," Krillin said, saving them all. "Before you go in with you fists up, you have to hear them out."

His words beckoned them all to lift their heads like obedient dogs.

"What?" Yamcha said, taking his hands out of his pockets, balling his fists.

Krillin blushed and stumbled on his words, sticking his hands up to defend himself. "There's a story behind this … that … I think you'll want to hear, Yamcha."

Bulma could hear her heart beat thumping in her ears, drowning out the howling wind, forcing her to focus on it. Not the words that polluted her brain, just the knowledge that she was still alive, but somehow detached.

Mina pushed past Yamcha, and stepped up to Krillin, dwarfing him with her six foot stature. "Oh yeah? Is that the story involving this guy who killed millions, and left Earth to rot?"

She sneered, easily knocked Krillin aside, and barged into Goku's house, holding aloft a ball of orange energy. Bulma's mouth was dry, watching as yet another energy harbouring maniac waltzed into her life. Was there anyone normal left?

Yamcha bleated pathetically and ran in after her. "Mina—"

There were two very prominent reasons why Bulma did not want to enter that establishment: People who had betrayed her were probably lounging in there like nothing had ever happened, and the doleful fact that the woman who was once in total control of how that house was run was no longer alive. It would feel empty without hearing Chichi shrieking about the amount of dirt Goku had walked in, or without the steam billowing from the open windows as she cooked inhumane portions of food for her Saiyan family.

Krillin could no longer wait for Bulma to dither upon a decision, so he traipsed on in, shoulders tied together as he awaited what kind of disaster was being unfolded in there. After hearing no crash, no explosions, Bulma took a deep breath, steadied herself, and went inside, struck by the familiar smell that the room held. That homely smell each house seemed to have, making it unique but familiar. Dust glazed everything in the hallway, pictures were almost unrecognisable under the layers of dirt and neglect. It brought a lump to her throat, but as the short hallway expanded into the open-plan living space, she dislodged the lump and focused on whatever the hell was going on in here.

In the middle of the room, stood Mina, energy ball still stuck in the air, resting on a shaking palm. To the side, standing and poised for something, were Goku and Gohan, whose eyes did not move from Mina, despite Bulma's belated, mouse-like entrance. Again, she felt like a side-act, an interruption in the midst of a show she hadn't been invited to see. There was another like her, though, hiding behind the main characters, shrouded by the main performance: Vegeta. She glanced at him for longer than intended, gathering the sight of him, his vitality shining like a beacon. He was leaning against the wall that led to the bedrooms, one foot propped up against the doorframe, his eyes fixed on an unimportant spot, avoiding eye contact with anyone, especially Mina.

Mina's hand shook and the energy dissipated, as did her courage. She was nonplussed, unable to take her eyes away from Vegeta. Bulma flexed her fingers, then dug them into her palm to keep herself restrained. No one did anything to stop the situation progressing.

What were they waiting for? A fight to break out? Why couldn't they put out the fire before it ravaged everything in sight?

"I know you," a small, distant voice muttered.

It took a few seconds for Bulma to realise that the voice belonged to Mina, who seemed to look wilted and cowardly with her shoulders touching her ears.

"_Why _do I _know_ you?" she shouted, real tears appearing in the corners of her eyes.

Bulma bit her lip, watching the scene unfold into something she hadn't expected. The blood in her fists was pulsing, nagging for her to take action and swing them in someone's face. And when Vegeta disregarded Mina's shrilling voice, refusing to give anyone an ounce of his attention, Bulma spun on her heels and stormed out of the house impulsively. She didn't belong in there. That was clear. With crystallising clarity, she knew she didn't want to be in there. Not at all. No way. Her existence in that very house was unnecessary, as they were all happy to continue without her.

The second she stepped out the door, the wind slapped her in the face, throwing her hair up and everywhere like a dishevelled blue halo above her head. It was like she hadn't escaped from Orlon at all. It was as if she had died.

She sat on the stone step, brushed the tough bristles of the battered 'Welcome Home' mat with her knuckles, cutting the skin far too easily.

He didn't even look at her. Not once. Yes, there were a lot of things happening to all of them, but she just thought, for a single moment that-

Tree branches swayed across the footpath, scattering it with leaves that weren't necessarily ready to let go; still green, still alive. She felt too angry to go back in there. She opted out before it had even begun. The truth was still miles away, and she'd forgotten to care.

She started when someone plonked themselves next to her, and she glanced up beyond the mass of hair that straggled across her eyes.

"Bulma," Goku said, and smiled weakly.

She looked away.

"I know this _looks_ bad, but—"

"I don't want to hear it. Any of it. You get that?" she snapped, whipping her head back towards him.

Goku sighed and bravely scooted closer to her, but lightning anger made her shove him back, consequentially doing more damage to herself than Goku, making her more irate.

"Get away," she said, standing up.

"Woah. Why?"

"Are you kidding?" she said, snorting with fake laughter, looking down at Goku with wild, fiery eyes. "You left me in that ship—I was captured and tortured. They thought I was working with Frieza," she shrieked, gripping onto her hair. She looked over her shoulder, into the open doorway, before adding, "I think they still do."

That thought had been resting in her mind the moment Yamcha conceded and took her in. Something was off. And she was right to stay wise to it.

Goku remained seated, his boyish features hardening as he took in to consideration someone else's pain. Despite having done something horrendous, every time she saw his face, she saw purity and innocence. That really pissed her off.

"I'm sorry. I had to get Vegeta out of there."

Her eye widened comically. "Why didn't you take me with you?" She gawped for a second, then snapped her mouth shut for all the hair that was trying to funnel down her throat.

He looked up. "You needed to be found, Bulma. You're neutral ground. If they found you hiding here with us … well, that wouldn't have looked good."

His words were so flippant, each syllable slapping her hard across the face, mocking and slandering her intelligence.

"They could've killed me," she shouted, her palms twitching with rage.

She knew Goku was staying sat down because he was allowing her to have height over the situation. He knew the pain he'd caused, yet he couldn't show how sorry he was. He never could.

"Sorry. I didn't think you'd be hurt …" he mumbled, eyes downcast. "Yamcha helped, though?"

"This is unreal," she said, picking a stray twig out of her hair.

A painful scream cut through the howling wind, shooting dread deep into the pit of Bulma's stomach. It was Mina. Something had happened to her. Had Vegeta done something?

She darted inside to see Mina curled up into a ball on the floor beneath Vegeta's feet, while everyone else kept their distance, warily watching them. Mina's crying depleted into soft sobs, muffled by the carpet. Bulma looked to Vegeta, who was still yet to douse anyone with his precious attention, before something stopped everyone's train of thought. Mina stood up, rubbed her nose with the sleeve of her jacket, and walked away.

"Mina—" Yamcha said, latching onto her sleeve.

She shook free from his grasp, and scowled. "Don't _touch_ me," she said and walked out.

"Someone better start fucking talking," Yamcha said, veins bulging out of his temples.

That was a side to him she'd never seen.

Goku brushed his hand against Bulma's back as he walked past. A gesture so casual and reassuring it startled her. But he joined the others, stood by Gohan, like the whole lot of them were mere props in this crappy screen play. Whatever had just happened was not going to be justified by any of these morons, especially not by the guy who stood cross-armed in the centre of it all. She couldn't stand it. The only person who held any ounce of sense was Mina, and she'd wandered off.

Bulma left the house again, too angry to start shouting at any of them, and too dumbfounded to make any sense, fruitlessly in search of one volatile woman, who, hey, could control energy. Something was drawing Bulma closer to Mina. Something intrigued her, peaked her interest, and it wasn't the fact that she'd just witnessed her sobbing on the floor in despair. Perhaps it was because she was sharing a bed with Bulma's ex-lover, feeling his arms around her like Bulma had once longed to do while stuck on Frieza's ship. Or perhaps it was because the whole situation was so fucked up, she didn't care what happened, so she just went with it.

The forest surrounding Goku's house welcomed Bulma's lonely soul, like a long lost friend, blotting out the ferocity of the wind, drowning the atmosphere she'd left behind in that house. She crunched on branches and leaves, ambling further and deeper amongst the trees, brushing her fingertips against cold tree bark. Goku had admitted it. It was purposefully executed. Vegeta and Goku's little plan. She didn't remember much about before that, other than an explosion. Never would she have suspected the two of them conspiring behind her back.

She stopped when she saw Mina huddled against a tree trunk, knees drawn up to her chest, tear stained cheeks and blood shot eyes.

"Mina?" Bulma said, clawing past a wavering cluster of branches.

"Don't call me that," she said, and sniffed.

Bulma tripped as she made her way towards her, clumsily jumping over jutting roots and branches. "Don't? Why not?"

"I don't _know_. Just don't."

Was there any point in asking what was going on? Bulma mirrored Mina's position nearby, close enough to see her features darken as she lifted her head, red ringlets of hair falling in front of her eyes. Two people so different sharing the same minute space.

"I'm sorry about before, by the way," she said, and laughed dryly into the crook of her elbow.

"If you don't want me to call you Mina, what should I call you?"

"I don't know," she uttered, and frowned like it left a bitter taste on her tongue. "I … I thought I wanted to kill him, you know. Your friend. But I couldn't."

Time stopped.

Bulma's stomach lurched. It was all unfurling before her eyes. The truth that was once being drip-fed to her was now cascading with untouchable force. And she sat, chin resting on her clamped knees, jaw set, teeth grinding together, waiting for a woman she'd known for five minutes to spill precious information about her 'friend'.

"Why?" she croaked.

Mina looked up at the thin tree cover, the streaks down her face more prominent in the late afternoon light, and she shrugged. "I don't know. When I saw him standing there, I knew it wasn't possible for me to hurt him. I physically couldn't do it."

"Jeez," Bulma said, sinking further into the ground, the dampness seeping into her clothing, stamping a palm to her forehead.

It had all just become one big joke, hadn't it? Was Frieza still watching? She hoped he was, because this was one not to miss. So Mina (or whoever the hell this woman was), the single person who strode into that house, declaring death upon Vegeta, was now as feeble and useless as everyone else? When Bulma saw Mina charging into that house, she hadn't really thought about the consequences. Too selfish, and thinking about her own problems. What if Mina had attacked Vegeta? Did Bulma ever consider that? The truth was, she had every confidence in Vegeta. She doubted that Mina would have landed a single punch.

"I didn't want to hurt him. I never … wanted to hurt anyone," Mina said, whispering the latter.

Bulma opted for total silence. There was too much to contemplate. It was all trying to barge into her brain, leaving no airspace to filter through.

"I had a life here… a family … a normal past." She cried again.

Bulma opened her eyes. "What?"

Mina never meant to hurt anyone? Did she mean Yamcha?

Mina looked up. "What do you mean, '_what'_?"

Was it worth riling up such an impulsive person, when you didn't really know them, at all? Bulma shook her head, rested her chin on her knees. "Nothing. Never mind."

The trees creaked, beams of golden light spanned through the forest, casting halos on the flaky bark, and for the first time in a year, Bulma heard a blackbird singing faintly in the distance.

* * *

><p>"Where is she?" Yamcha said, looking over his shoulder as Bulma approached.<p>

The room was just as she'd left it; a dysfunction bunch of people lingering with little to no conversation at all. She wondered if they'd uttered a single word to each other yet, or maybe they'd stood in silence waiting for the wind to change.

"She wants to be alone," Bulma found herself saying aggressively, and allowing herself a millisecond peek at Vegeta.

"That's fine. They've explained what I need to know," Yamcha said, tight-lipped.

"Which is?"

"That we don't have much time."

Yamcha attempted a dutiful escape, leaving Bulma hanging by a thread to piece together what he was talking about, yet again. It meant nothing to her. She was so frustrated she stomped her foot like a toddler and spread her arms out to stop him going any further. All the occupants in the room, including your royal highness, looked over at her as if she were a minor distraction, an intruder in their secret boys club.

Knowing Yamcha's wilting courage all too well, Bulma knew he wouldn't push past her. He was a sap. That, she had remembered well.

"I've had it with people bullshitting. Someone tell me what's happening … _Now_," she demanded, folding her arms.

Vegeta watched her curiously, without making any attempt at being the one to explain things.

Gohan stood up, a little taller than she remembered, and said, "My Dad and Vegeta turned up here about three days ago. I didn't know who Vegeta was until now, but … I believe he's here to help." He looked to Goku for support, but he shrugged, obviously quite satisfied with his son's unsupportive explanation.

"Help? With _what?" _Bulma said, arms dropping to her sides.

"Oh, switch the lights on, woman," Vegeta hissed, his abruptness stunning her. "You think Frieza is going to let you _live _on your little planet again? He'll track us all down for revenge, and rip us to pieces." He huffed and crossed his arms.

It felt like the room was shrinking, or she was inflating. She tried to swallow, but her throat seemed blocked, the muscles unable to contract, frozen stiff with terror. This whole time she'd been wrapped up in the state of the Earth and how she slotted into its bruised equation, she'd forgotten that Frieza catching up to them was highly probable. And judging by the certainty in Vegeta's voice, it was going to happen soon. If anyone knew Frieza's motives, it would be Vegeta, for reasons she didn't want to imagine.

"No—he didn't know where we were going—" she said.

"Of course he knows. This is the first place he'll come looking," Vegeta said, talking down to her like he always had done, but somehow antagonising her more than it used to.

She shook her head. It wasn't true. A downpour of possibilities bombarded her. Had the Orling foreseen this? Had Vegeta? Who was on her side? When would Frieza come back? Did she have time?

"We need to fight back. Having Vegeta on our side gives us a better chance," Goku said, to which Vegeta grunted something unintelligible.

Bulma laughed raucously, clutching onto her stomach. "He's not on _our side_. He's on his _own _side."

Something in her words captured Vegeta's attention, trapping them together for a fleeting moment. There was so much she wanted to say to him, so much abuse she wanted to hurl in his direction. How he had hurt her beyond belief. But she couldn't see its worth. What would she possibly gain from elaborating on the past, acting as if he had vegetated his way through it …? The glassy image of Frieza's contorted, rage-twisted face flashed into her mind. She was going to see that face again in a perfect light. Her hands trembled as she patted her warm face, trying to isolate herself from everyone in the room. Yamcha was standing close behind her, protecting her, maybe not even being aware of it.

"Frieza needs to be stopped. We need all the help we can get, Bulma," Goku said, adding a pinch of hope into a broth of pessimism.

"Who do you trust, Goku?" she said. "I still don't know how you're alive—and why. You went and left me to be tortured …" She shook her head, a sour grimace manipulating her features. "No. If Frieza is coming, you can do whatever the hell you want. I'm having nothing to do with it."

She turned to leave on a dramatic high, but stopped in the doorway for someone she owed some kindness to.

"Gohan, I'm sorry—It's good to see you, kid."

She walked out, kept walking.


End file.
